All posts by Laura F

General Musings, Snippets

First love

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The boy falls in love. Tumbling blinded into desire and pulsing need. His world obliterated by one gorgeous group of atoms molded into female form.

I watch. Powerful and powerless. A jealous enabler; part taxi driver, part cook, spare part. It is too soon for him to understand the love jumble of emotions: at fourteen he is still a child and she is older by 15 months or perhaps years. He has no chance of breath or choice while faced by such advanced feminine wiles. He cannot and does not listen to me. Why should he? What can I possibly know of young love in my “ancient” form? I persist, trying to keep connection, trying to be neutral, dropping suggestions and hints of how to spend time, where to spend time, gifts and ideas shrouded in wisdom and guidance.

I helplessly watch him make poor decisions on where to spend his time, grateful that the love of the game means he still goes to practice and still performs on the pitch. The difference is she now joins me to watch him play, even though she doesn’t like the sport. I think he likes having her there although the other players both tease him and revere him for this female slavish devotion.

We are bonded in our love of the bones of him and I gradually let her in as time shows this is not a fleeting first love but a deep felt connection fulfilling some primal calling.

She’s bright, well read and attractive. Her parents go from acquaintances to friends and we bond over concerns of the nature of their relationship, shared taxi duties and mutual values. This is hugely helped by their Scottish/Danish sensibilities, this similar cultural references making even the most delicate of conversations somewhat easier. The hardest of these being the “are they really ready” and the discussion and debate between blocks and facilitation. Of course the kids are steps ahead and I have the painful pleasure of listening to my boy explain his feelings and ask for my support. I sit on the sand, letting it run through my fingers as he confidently puts forward his thoughts and opinions; how can this be my child, my boy? But then again, how can this not be my son? We walk back along Bathesheba beach and the world has changed, the juggernaut of progress has found a different gear. He runs ahead to play with Monty dog and I realize the gold of the moment is not in the sand or the glistening Caribbean Sea, it’s not in the delight of watching boy v dog races and the joyful hoots of his laughter; rather it’s in the acknowledgment that this is the beginning of letting go. The start of my journey to learn to let my child grow into a man. It’s not easy.

Almost a year later I stand in the kitchen and say to her “You must finish this. You deserve better and are worth more than how he’s treating you now. Let him go. He does not have the courage to tell you it’s over for him. Instead he’s treating you badly and it’s breaking my heart as this is not how I have brought him up. No woman should be treated with such cavalier distain – never let this happen to you again. Have the courage to break your heart, you cannot change him, change yourself” She nods tearfully and goes downstairs to almost verbatim repeat what I have said back to him, I guess in the hope to make him change.

I stand battered by his hormonal rage when she leaves. He’s confused. My sisterly solidarity has trumped my Mothers love. He doesn’t understand my betrayal and is determined to prove me wrong. This lasts less than a week and she is cast off again. I rage silently wishing her courage.

Four weeks later, he tells me she’s done with him having sat him down during break-time to let him know her decision. I ask for his response and he shares that he sits with her , letting her talk, feeling responsible for her pain,  yet relief that she’s ended it. I give my female perspective and watch as his eyes cloud over.

There is much learning still to be had.

She will always be his first love, always be special.
He doesn’t realize this yet.

One day…

 

 

Snippets

Being bendy

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There are some of us who find yoga to be a transformative, relaxing  way of being and others who struggle through, gamely trying to be quiet as we topple over, wobble or lie flat and inactive hoping the instructor doesn’t notice.  I belong to the latter while hoping to reach the former.  I keep striving, and falling.   One day I’ll make the pose, it was not today.

 

While contemplating trying to get my nose closer to my toe, my mind wanders off to my latest insight.  In my line of work, change is planned with methodical precision.  Depending on the change methodology being used, there are tools and techniques for every stage of the process.  This structure always reassures the client;  it makes change seem linear, manageable, controlled.  It can be charted and measured, tweaked and adapted, recorded and reported.  It will all work out the way it says on the plan.

However, reality is, change is messy.  Unless you’re discussing system or technical change requiring no human intervention, this happens once in a blue moon;  most of the time, change involving living breathing humans is rarely controlled and structured no matter what the charts and spreadsheets tell you.  So change managers learn to be flexible and adaptable; managing client expectations with swan like serenity as their brain and feet run nineteen to the dozen with possibilities, interventions and persuasions to get the change programme back on track.

Living in Barbados is akin to  managing  constant change.  Ironic when culturally the local people seem so change adverse.  As expats here we make plans, only to change them given the time it takes to travel, or the heat intensity of the sun, or the need to be flexible to accommodate others, or the changing weather, or that someone has had another bright idea.  Dinner party plans can be thrown as not all the ingredients needed are available that day/week, or football or exercise classes  cancelled because the players or instructor have other things to do.  The internet goes down so work needs to be rearranged, the water doesn’t run as somehow where we live has problems with water supply.   The queue for the bank is so long, plans to run other errands are put off to the following day.  In Barbados, being flexible is a prerequisite to a peaceful  existence  with the ability to not stress and worry when plans change at the last-minute.

This type of living is not for everyone and some visitors struggle with the lack of structure or the inability to stick with and execute a plan hatched the night before but changed by morning circumstances.

I get it.  I used to love putting structure around every aspect of my life.  My mental wardrobe was full of neatly stacked boxes, compartmentalised, organised, indexed and never to be messed up.  Correspondingly I spent my energy trying to manage and stretch time to suit.   Today, as the Bajan way of being dripplingly seeps  into my daily activities,  my attitude is also changing; I am way more open to compromise, to taking the time to properly listen without expressing my inner view.  Today I have time for discussion, for genuine enquiry and curiousity to emerge.  This approach has the benefits I used to talk about but rarely do; building deeper trust and mutual respect, learning differently  about others and their perspectives.  Flexing and being adaptive to circumstances of today, putting the building blocks of trust in the bank for next week or month or year.

This insight deepens my change practice.  For delivery of any successful people-change programme requires the upfront analysis and planning time to be split 70/30. 70% of time is on relationship building, observing , enquiring, deeply listening, activities which are way beyond the talking and the words on the wall.  30% of our energy is on structure change; the charts and maps and “as is” / “to-be” process analysis. Splitting our time investment this way means that change delivery time is quicker and output more useful and productive.  And that the process of adapting through change is not feared or hidden from view but is instead welcomed as a demonstration of engagement and ownership.

As our staycation plans change once more, I’m realising that my feelings of disappointment and irritation and anger and frustration are just minuscule moments in time.  What matters is the bedrock of friendship and relationship remains intact.  Connection, care and love are worth way more than getting worked up about how and what we do today.

 

 

 

 

 

General Musings, Snippets

High on happy

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I’ve written a couple of blogs over the past few weeks which have not made it to publish stage yet, somehow all the negativity , worry and concern created by a potential Brexit and the utter stupidity from the Orange one across the pond, has seeped itself into my writing.

Thankfully, I know a cleansing is in the offing and as I board the plane I have the excited tingling sensation of a four year old anticipating gooey chocolate cake and the resulting sugar high; the mountains beckon.

We are here for a full 8 days and after the first day of purgatory where I’m still trying to break in my Surefoot custom-made ski boots which after 8 seasons of blister plasters, ibuprofen pain relief every 3 hours, and bruised shins, are obviously a lost cause, I give in and go to the hire shop. As I slip my feet into the padded softness of the brand new, rented, Alpina ski boots, I realise that this is what having cancer does; it shortcuts decision making. Yes it costs, but whether it’s a penny, a pound or millions of spondoolies, you can’t take it with you. I am here now.  My own blasted boots are never going to ‘spark joy’ and I want to enjoy my time on the mountains. What a fabulous decision this is proving to be. Free of foot and leg pain, I am able to go anywhere and do any ski run of my choosing.

There is a moment today, when the ice wind is cutting through my 7 layers of clothing, my 2 pairs of socks and gloves, my full face balaclava, goggles and helmet and eating into my very bones, when I look out and down the hill. In front is my husband and son together cutting sharp turns on freshly pisted virgin snow. We are the only people on this run. The lake at the bottom of the mountain glistens in the pale sunlight, the snow blows silently off the pine trees and drifts into the air as I pass, the only sound I can hear is the satisfying squeak-crunch of ski on snow. I momentarily stop, thinking I should take a photo to capture the moment before shaking myself to my senses. This is a moment for living, not recording. A moment of sheer aliveness and gratitude that no camera could ever hope to capture. Seared into my memory bank; the only way to thank the universe for my being here is to keep going.

One of the joys of skiing for me is the ‘present-ness’ of it all. It’s the best form of mindfulness that I know. There are no other thoughts than icy, bumpy, lumpy, pisted, groomed, deep powder, tracked-out snow and the kind of skiing and control it demands. It’s been 3 seasons since we last skied together as a family and in this time we have all experienced significant life changes – not least that Roscoe has grown over 8inches and his new body means he needs to adjust his skiing style. On day two we send him off on an advanced ski lesson and he returns wild eyed, exhausted and slightly deranged. From one of the chair lifts we look aghast at the places where he’s been and I’m so glad that I don’t have the burning need to prove myself anymore. As a boy with competitive mates, he probably has many more years of sheer stupidity and daftness on skis ahead of him.

 

Although the following day, his muppetry extends to a new unparalleled level , where mid-way through the morning he turns to me and says, “Mum, I’m just not feeling it today”. I leap to the conclusion that he’s lost confidence given his extreme ski the day before and reassure him we’ll take it easy. Later, as we tighten our boots after lunch, he makes a surprising discovery – his 70’s style clam shell boots (now coming back into fashion) are on the wrong feet and he has skied like this all morning. I reflect that he must be fairly reasonable on skis that he made this possible.

By contrast as Craig and I are inching into our middle years, our aches and pains seem to linger longer. These little creaks are gentle reminders that our bodies are not designed to keep going ad-infinitum. In the mountains the aches become muscular, deeper; a welcome reminder that we can still ski-fly down the hill but there are consequences attached to such decisions. I wonder if skiing decisions go the same way as life itself where the caring adult becomes the child and the child becomes the caring adult. Do black runs and the high of surviving off piste glide into the gentle delight of blue and green runs as the pine-tree snow-dust scatters in the wind?

When I was in hospital one of my best memories to replay was of a restaurant in Switzerland, full of some of my favourite ski friends, and us skiing from our lodge in Chatel in France, across the mountain and up on a T-bar to this shining bastion of good food and even better wine. Fortified with full tummies and the requisite amount of alcohol, we would all ski like demons home, making the last ski lifts as the clanging bells sounded across the valley. On our final visit, we didn’t acknowledge this was our last time, there remained the potential of another sojourn, another year.

Now of course, I am more aware of time; next time, last time, final times. So I don’t take for granted this ability to step into comfy ski boots and have an easy glide down the mountain. Who knows what lies ahead. Apart from today and tomorrow, everything else just stops, while the mountain envelops me in her magic of possibilities.

So irrespective of the absolute tomfoolery which is currently happening in the homeland; the plots, defections, confusion, concern and uncertainty, there will always be a mountain beckoning somewhere. A mountain of promise. A mountain of fun. And if we’re  lucky we might meet at the top of such a place and have a bite of something delicious and a toast, or two, to the sheer joy of breathing in the air of just being here.

Snippets

Traditions

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This Saturday we drive up to Clifton Hall,  Great House in St John, dressed in full Scots regalia.  We are out for the evening to celebrate Burns night.  After a 30 minute drive through some of the beautiful Barbados countryside, we arrive at this stunning plantation house, the driveway lit by flickering candles, the piper standing at the door with our host,  Massimo.  It feels like we are in a  scene out of a movie and I have to pinch myself to stop my gleeful insides bursting out.

We have agreed, as bone fide Scots, to help maintain the traditions of the Burns Supper and Craig delivers a superlative “toast to the Haggis” where he stabs the aforementioned creature with great gusto until its “gushing entrails bright, Like onie ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich”!

After some wonderful food, education and entertainment, its my turn.  I have agreed to give the response to the Laddies and never one to turn down a speaking engagement, I’m there, ready, in full entertainment mode.

So in case any of you are ever pressed to deliver the lassies response, I thought I would share my words.  At least it gives an insight into what thousands of Scots would have been doing this weekend, no matter where they are in the world.  What I re-remembered on Saturday is that my culture and traditions live bright in my heart and although I may not return very often, I carry Scotland with me wherever I go.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, it falls to me, your allocated lassie for this evening, to take up the challenge of replying to   Howard’s unconventional, highly entertaining toast.  What a lovely toast it was to us lassies so I’d like to personally thank him for his words.  These sentiments are much appreciated, especially now we’re a few drams doon – you may need a few more by the time I’m done.

When I agreed to take on this task, which was at the end of one of those long, noisy, heid-banging Sunday afternoons at the Cliff Beach Bar;  Massimo was at pains to point out that previous iterations of this event had been over-long and would I keep it to 5 minutes.  Well I’ve never listened to a man before.  And I’m not about to start now…

There are various womanly wiles I could use to encourage you to listen;  I could use facts and figures for those of you who have logical, rational brains; I could use props and pictures and other “techniques” {shoogle boobies} for those of you who are more visual.  Those who are more auditory may prefer the words of the Bard himself, the kinesthetics amongst you may prefer to contribute – not heckle mind – to what I’m sharing.  One voice at a time though otherwise I may get all “Ms Jean Brodie” . Actually, this  reminds me of a true story I’d like to share.

Great friends of mine, moved up to the home country to a wee village called Braco, just off the A9 (its in-between Perth and Stirling for those geographic types).  Nick, who’s originally from South Africa, was in the pub one evening and got chatting to 3 laddies from Wick; the wee Highland town where I was brought up.  Now, I have spent many hours with Nick;  I spoke at their wedding; I helped him wet the heid of his first born; I’ve sat more evenings than I care to remember, at his dining room table and in his kitchen and had many, many  long sober and drunken chats; his wife, Clare,  is one of my very best friends.  Nick knows me.  So in the course of the male bonding love-in going on in the Braco bar, Nick asks if they know a Laura from Wick and hopefully mentions a few of my finer qualities.   One of them says, “Laura who”?

By now, Nick is a few pints of Heavy down and he frantically casts around his grey matter for my surname.  He remembers a video I had given him when they first moved from England, to assist with his broader Scottish Education, and inspired, he splurts,  “ Laura…Brodie”.

By all accounts, three sets of eyes cast upwards to the right as they search for a connection.  Laura Brodie.  “Aye”, says one of them. “ I remember Laura Brodie.  She was in my History Class at the High school.  She was a bit of a goer.  Popular with the boys.  Never said no”.  “I was with her”, chimes his mate.  “Just for a night.  Aye”  “Go-an” says the third, “me too;  she ate me up”.  Nick sits at the bar, shocked, staring at his pint of Heavy and mulling over the fact that the version of the Laura he knows is far removed from what’s just been described.

He staggers home to impart the news to Clare, that her ‘besie’ mate has a colourful past.  Clare, a no nonsense Northerner, listens to the whole story and then makes him walk through it again, this time getting more of the detail.  These three braggard boys from Wick had obviously been on the mushrooms, or figured that Nick would be impressed that this lass that he knew, was so accommodating.  It’s a shame then that my surname is Ferguson. Laura Brodie is yet another figment of a male imagination.

But how illustrative is this, of the male need to compete, over Women; Sport: Life.  Rabbie Burns knew this.  Take the furore which happened last year when the former national poet of Scotland, Liz Lochhead, referred to Burns as “Weinsteinian”.  This serious charge of misogyny and rape is  based on a letter he’d written in 1788 to his pal, Bob Ainslie,  in which he described having sex with his soon to be wife, Jean Armour who was heavily pregnant by then with his 2nd set of twins.  Using Burns’ colourful command of the Scots vernacular  he describes how he “ gave her such a thundering scalade that electrified the very marrow of her bones”

Not content with such a graphic description of his sexual prowess, he then goes on to eulogise his penis. And let me share this for it truly is a work of prose;

“Oh what a peacemaker is the guide wheel-willy pintle! It is the mediator, the guarantee, the umpire, the bond of union, the solemn league and covenant, plenipotentiary, the Aaron’s rod, the Jacob’s staff, the prophet Elisha’s pot of oil, the Ahasuerus Sceptre, the sword of mercy, the philosopher’s stone, the Horn of Plenty, and the Tree of Life between Man and Woman.’ 

Well I don’t know about the rest of you ladies but this makes me come over all in a hot flush! Dear God, there’s not many women who would not pray to encounter one of these at least once in her lifetime,  let me tell you!

Frankly, this is more likely to be a bloke bragging to a mate about his sexual prowess, in a situation where this cannot or will not be challenged; a bit like the three blokes in a bar in Braco, pretending to have had their way with the fictional Laura Brodie.

We wise women are aware of the male need to have the ego stroked;  the highly strung mind, calmed;  the warrior male, aroused; any wounded pride re-built.   We are experts at humanness, we can use our energies to help men feel male again.  While most men tend to be linear, simple, transactional, translatable;  we women, we are atoms of variety and fascination.  We can choose to be Sex kittens; Bitches;  Queens, Lovers, Mothers, Warrioresses, Sorceresses. Grounded by the earth and nurtured by the soul of the moon; women hold a different power – not better, not higher, just different.

 

You men would be well advised to take heed of this.  Rabbie Burns understood it  after all he is quoted “Mither nature…her prentice hand she tried on man and then she made the lasses, O’” . The Burns I know and love,  is not a sex pest or philanderer, he loved women;  his mother, his aunts, his sisters, his wife, his daughters and, yes, his lovers. Burns valued and appreciated women for our beauty and intellect, along with our political views, our humour and  passion for words and language.

Burns’ love of women began with his Mother; Agnes Broun Burns.  By all accounts she couldn’t read or write a word but she was an avid storyteller. Imagine this wee slip of a woman with bright red hair,  going about her daily chores with a wee Rabbie rapt by her side as she sings the songs of the ancient lands, verbally imbibing his desire for Scots legends, history and  folklore.  Seeped deep in the art of oral history it’s no wonder Burns developed his passion for rhyme and song.

We all know Burns put into practice his assertion that he preferred the company of women saying “The finest hours that e’er I spent were spent amang the lasses, O’.”   This probably explains why there are so many descendants of his lineage running about the world today.   His was a seduction of humour, intellect and outstanding rhythmic language. In a world where getting pregnant out of wedlock was considered to be the worst of mortal sins, Burns was Baby Daddy to  12 children by four different women. Thinking about it, Burns could quite happily live in Barbados today ; to the Kirk on Sunday for absolution, the fields for work, the rum shop for stories and the beach for pleasure and conquest. He’d fit right in.

So that brings me to tonight, what would Burns  want me to share with you men that gives you hope and rumination in the wee sma ‘oors when the whiskey is still doing a wee dance in the brain.   I combed the Burns annals, toyed with “the Rights of Women” still apt today, but thought it ower long and I still have my favourite Scots joke to share.  The delight of “What can a young lassie dae wi an Auld Man” made me giggle but it could potentially send some of our present company to the bottom of the whisky bottle.  So, I’ve settled on the short and not well known

“A bottle and a friend”

Here’s a bottle and an honest friend!
What wad ye wish for mair, man?
Wha kens, before his life may end,
What his share may be o’ care, man?

Then catch the moments as they fly,
And use them as ye ought, man:
Believe me, happiness is shy,
And comes not aye when sought, man.

A prescient Burns had it right, long before Carpe Diem and the Dead Poets society.

So before we seize the day, or the rest of the night, or the glass, I want to leave you with my favourite Scots joke:

 An armed, hooded, robber burst into the Bank of Scotland in Princes Street, Edinburgh, and forced the tellers to load a sack full of cash. On his way out the door with the loot, one brave Scottish customer grabbed the hood and pulled it off revealing the robber’s face. The robber shot the Scotsman without hesitation! He then looked around the bank to see if anyone else had seen him. One of the tellers looked straight at him so the robber walked over, raised his gun and calmly shot him  straight in the heid. Everyone in the bank was by now really feart and were all  studiously looking at the floor. “Did anyone else see my face?” roared  the robber. There were a few seconds of silence, then one elderly Scottish lady, still looking down, tentatively raised her hand and said:

“I think my husband might have caught a glimpse .….”

Thank you to the laddies who keep us on the slow boil, for the evening festivities and the shenanigans yet to come.  Ladies please be upstanding and lets give a toast to to our laddies.  Bless each and every one of our scallywags. To the Laddies”.

 

Engaging people, General Musings, Life change, Snippets

Legacy

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Between Christmas festivities and New Year celebrations we fly to the USA for a reminder of first world life.  3 nights and 4 days are plenty enough to gorge on Floridian excesses including Miami South Beach posing, head-turning car porn and excess bling; to Key West tourist-tat, determined displays of alternativeness (if you have to try this hard, then you’re not living authentically) and wish-washy sunsets; we are happy to get back on the plane laden with a fresh supply of magazines and bargain basement clothing.

Many of these magazines have articles focused on looking back; on a year in review, person of the year, etc. They provide interesting reading; some names and stories I was unaware of, others have been shared in mainstream media.

These articles bring to mind a charming animated Disney Pixar movie which I watched on a plane last year.

Coco, tells the story of the dead souls who annually reunite with their living relatives as long as they are remembered. When the last living soul who remembers them dies, they turn to dust.

I’m also reminded of a recent radio programme talking of when Bing Crosby met David Bowie and the recording of their duet “Peace on Earth/Little Drummer Boy” for Crosby’s popular TV special. By all accounts Crosby was not much enamoured of this young upstart, he being the much bigger star at the time. So it’s interesting to move forward 40 years to find Roscoe’s generation being inspired by Bowie and wondering who the old geezer wearing the Granddad jumper is in the video.

I ask Craig during our drive down to Key West, who he thinks will be remembered in 150 years time. When our generation and the next two generations have gone, and many of us will be dust. He responds almost immediately with a cynical reply,  “despots and tyrants are always remembered”.  We start to go back in history and I reluctantly see his point. We also talk about explorers and scientists and have a lively debate on if Stephen Hawking will be remembered years from now. Is his legacy strong enough or do his pronouncements on relativity (the nature of space and time), and quantum theory (how the smallest particles in the Universe behave) to explain the creation of the Universe and how it is governed, merely lay the foundation for others to make more startling discoveries? On British Royalty, we agree that Queen Elizabeth and Princess Diana are likely to be remembered for their actions and enacting change. Our jury is out on Prince Charles. Driving past the still half-mast American flag (we presume due to the recent death of 41, President Bush) we talk about those American Presidents still living and dead and mull on those who are memorable or not. We deduce that those who were firsts or created long-lasting change are remembered, those who served and chartered a steady course, less so. This is equally true of British Prime Ministers; Blair, Cameron, May will disappear into a historical timeline, Churchill, Pitt, George, possibly Thatcher, Atlee and even Chamberlain stand out. Of business leaders, I think Gates will be remembered for his philanthropy and determination to rid the world of polio, malaria and other curable diseases, much more than him co-founding Microsoft. Will future generations remember Buffett, Zuckerberg, Branson, Dyson or Jobs? Or the GE titan, Jack Welsh?

When I coach senior leaders and CEOs I ask the legacy question as a way to get them to think beyond the quarterly or half-yearly results; to look beyond their tenure and out into the horizon. Focusing on this helps them align with the broader purpose of the organisation and these two elements tend to be much more engaging for employees than the traditional mission, strategy and vision. An organisation led by a leader who knows where they fit in the bigger picture, who they are, why they are there and why they want to achieve their goals is much more likely to succeed in the longer term than those solely looking for enhanced Total Shareholder Earnings and quarterly profit growth. The sustainable long-term health and viability of an organisation and the success of its Leader should never be measured on financial performance and metrics alone.

While using this question is instructive for those in positions of power and authority, I’m not sure how helpful it is to others. For focusing on legacy feeds the human ego, leads to craven angst on meaning and satisfies our craving to be noticed.

It’s true that considering our legacy is a way of making sense of why we are here. But why are we focused on creating meaning and measuring success on a time-bound, out of our control construct?

Surely it is enough that our contribution to life and living is honored and celebrated by those who we love and who love us in return? Being our version of a legend in our own lifetime helps focus our energy. It doesn’t matter how big or small our achievements are, it matters than we care and we count. That our lives are meaningful to one person or many. It matters that we absorb, learn from and accept life change while remaining true and constant to who we are.  It matters that we stay open to, and flexible about, our ever-changing knowledge and beliefs. That we take positive action when we can.

At this time of year, we can get caught in big hopes and aspirations, in setting goals and maybe making changes. In making ourselves better, living our lives differently, being more. Many start to think of legacy as the years quickly move on. This time of year, encouraging change is good business for those of us in the business of change. You will find your inbox and social media accounts littered by offers of helping you shift your mindset, your waistline and some of your bank balance.

Before you swipe up for more information or click the reply button, or get lost in Pinterest or Twitter while worrying about what’s missing, your negative voice chattering about inadequacies and comparisons, just stop.

Take a moment for reflection.

Shift focus, acknowledge you are human, fallible, contradictory and unique. That you are enough as you are. That you matter, irrespective and sometimes because of, all the choices and decisions you make and the people you love and care about; who love you, as you are now, in return.

By all means keep improving, growing, learning, developing, thriving. But start from the premise that you already count. That you are already a legend, for someone, somewhere.

Now what’s possible?

Changes created by the cancer adventure, General Musings, Life change

Time flies

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This time, three years ago, I was alone in a hospital room, watching the night slip away and the transformational, slow-creeping dawn of a new day.  

I was not scared that day. I lived in the moment knowing this would pass. I understood I needed to let go; to trust in the skills of others; to rely on the love that surrounded me; to be free of any pre-conceived thinking.  It was a unique time, a special and privileged space to walk into and hold. Eyes wide open, this day was the beginning of the most profound, personal change and learning programme which I’m lucky enough to continue.

On this anniversary, I’m sharing some of these learnings. Some of these are deep and meaningful. Others are not.

1. We are the product of our thoughts. What we think will be. But as our thoughts constantly change, we have the opportunity to change what will be.

Nothing is set in stone. Changing our thinking, changes our outcomes.

2.Our feelings are attached to our thoughts and our thoughts are attached to our feelings.

If I think my recovery will be painful then guess what? My recovery is going to be painful. However, if I think my recovery will be bearable, then I stand a better chance of dealing with all the little niggles and set-backs that occur (like them taking my morphine button away a day early). Conversely this can work the other way too. For example,  ripping out my feeding tube “accidentally” in the shower (I hated that feeding tube and they kept saying, “One more day”). It hurt beyond blazes, I still remember the searing agony. But I told myself before I did it, it was going to be painless. I was wrong.

3.People love to help. Help them by asking for specific help.

For example, “I can’t drive for a few weeks and Craig needs to go away for work, can you come and be my driver on these dates”? My lovely friend Karen, did not hesitate, despite living a busy life 200 miles away. It took mouth cancer surgery to not comment on her driving my car; if I’d had a tongue to bite, it would have been an even bigger mess than my new, surgically created, tongue.

4.After big, life-changing, surgery, emotions are heightened.

This is normal and it continues for many weeks; maybe months and sometimes years. The ability to ‘feel more’ intensifies; the air you breathe is sweeter, more rarefied, more precious. I cry far more easily now; my friends know I love and cherish them because I tell them; I won’t waste time doing meaningless, unproductive work for organisations with no purpose and no soul; I choose carefully the people I want to spend time with. The consequence of this hubris is that I am blessed with some incredibly strong friendships while being much less financially robust. However, I now live with ethics, principles and morals and luckily a husband who still works.

5.Your scars will not be as bad as you think they will be.

Three years on, mine are visible but are now an essential part of who I am and frankly I don’t give an XXX what others may think. Three years ago, I never would have believed that I would be so comfortable in my own skin.  My wise girlfriend Haydee, shared ” scars are tattoos with better stories”.  These days I am an avid storyteller.

6.It’s tougher on your support team than it is on you.

You have to get on with the business of living, surviving or dying. You’re the lucky one, it’s happening to you and you alone choose how you deal with your diagnosis. The loved ones around you are plunged into seas of uncertainty, fear, stress and worry. They can only look on knowing that community and society judges their reactions and behaviours to your diagnosis. Be kind to them. Worst case scenario, they could choose not to see you.  In my experience, they only get away with this, if they live far away and their local community has no idea that they have not seen you since prior to your diagnosis. The ones who live close by, are the ones who will be judged. Be nice.

7.It’s BS when they say children are resilient.

Roscoe has had his moments of resilience just as he’s had his moments of sheer fright and panic. They are humans, they process emotions slightly differently to adults but they still feel. And never lie to a child about your diagnosis. I thought I was protecting him when I lied that people get better from this cancer and it was nothing to worry about. 15 months later I had to tell him that Charlie had died, leaving his mate, Tyler, without a Mummy. I will always remember his reaction and his face on hearing this news. Now he’s a teenager, I know I disappoint him on a more regular basis but unlike other parents, I know when disappointing my child began.

8. It takes two years minimum for you to come back into yourself.

I went back to work, way, way, too early with a brain like a jellied eel and a memory bank of mush. I turned up to a meeting with my new Exec Director and found myself stuck in one of Dr Who’s time loops, repeating what I’d just said over and over again. I kept waiting for my synapses to fire up but they were away on extended holiday. This was neither good for my confidence, nor my soul. Give yourself time to heal; mentally, physically and emotionally. Otherwise you could end up back in another operating theatre 6 months later, like I did.

9.You will be skinny but it doesn’t last.

I walked out of hospital, the same weight I was in my twenties. Apart from the arm cast, the scars and the hollowed cheeks, I thought I looked great – I could fit into all those skirts and trousers I had held onto in the vain hope I’d be a size 6/8 again. But the joy of being able to eat roars loud and unfortunately I’m now heavier than I was prior to my diagnosis. Determined to not be ‘fat with scars’, I’m pushing myself through a fitness regime with menopausal zeal. I look back on those early days of recovery with a fondness beyond the obvious gratitude that I’m robust and well enough to attend my fitness classes today.

10.The desire to be a cancer missionary, raise money and awareness will burn bright.

I’ve given speeches, talks, opening addresses at conferences, appeared on TV and radio, been interviewed and started this blog. I wanted people to be aware, to know it could happen to them, even if, like me, they never lived with any of the so-called causal factors. “It could be you” became a mantra. I don’t know if any of this has made a difference to others but it’s made a massive difference to me. To be able to make people listen, to have them laugh and cry and feel and most importantly check their mouths, is an immense privilege. I have honed my speaking ability, my presentation skills, my writing platform and my ability to laugh at myself.

 

11.Why stop at 10?

That would be predictable and you know in your very soul that life can change on a dime. So embrace the learning, the ongoing curiosity about what’s happening to your heart, mind and body; stand up on the surfboard of change and love your life.

12.Attend all of your check up appointments. Don’t miss one.

Listen if I can get on a plane, fly 8 hours and drive 100 miles for a 10 minute check up appointment every 2 months, then you can make sure you show up too. Turning up to my first checkup without Craig was tough;  we had seen Mr Bater together for every appointment; we were the practised double act, always trying to raise a smile or a reaction from this taciturn cancer consultant. On my own was a much scarier, lonelier proposition, particularly the time when I had developed potentially serious symptoms many hundreds of miles away. The sense of distance and vulnerability created by leaving my support network in the UK has diminished over time, after all, I know what it takes to get back to Mr B if I need to.

13.Frame yourself as a cancer adventurer.

It takes five years to gain an ‘all clear’ diagnosis, in the meantime I’m not fighting cancer or surviving cancer, I’m on a life adventure with regular cancer-free checkups. And long may this continue. When I outsourced my cancer removal to Mr B and his medical colleagues, I kept my cancer recovery responsibilities. I’m not a victim of cancer, I’m not battling it. I’m getting on with stomping, stumbling and exhibition-dancing my way through life.

Our time here is fleeting; I’m a tiny atom of matter in multiple universes of atoms and matter. I’m connected and separate and time-bound and slowly disintegrating and dying (hopefully of old age).

After all, we’re all destined to not make it one day.

So let’s make this day, and each day, count.

Snippets

The numbers can lie

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Some of the most creative stories I’ve ever hear come from the mouths of the accountants, financial controllers and investor relations experts that I’ve worked with. They know how to manipulate a spreadsheet to make the story change and the numbers shift like Houdini magic. It’s then “Game on” to see if the other financial whizz kids can spot what they have done and call them out on it.Attachment.png

Sitting in many conference rooms, interminable discussions occur where bright brained colleagues take financial data and shift emphasis to create a more positive performance interpretation.

This is not a gift I have been blessed with. Numbers are too absolute for me, too static. They line up and after the basics I get panicked or bored. I really, really wish I could interpret financial data creatively. As I learn by asking questions and doing, it’s going to require someone with bucketloads of patience and an infinite ability to make the complex simple to help me move beyond simple interpretation.

However, it’s not simple interpretation that I need today. The boxing instructor has a clever scales machine that I ask to use, given I’ve been studiously attending class 3 times a week for the past 6 weeks. I figure I can tip the scales in my favor especially when I had a minimal breakfast this morning. Attachment_1.png

She’s smiling. This is not me. 

Eagerly, I place my bare feet square on the mental pads and firmly grasp the attached T-bar contraption which holds the data screen. Almost immediately it starts to spew out a wealth of data about the state of my body which I neither recognise or agree with. Made worse by the boxing instructor repeating the information out out loud thereby broadcasting my shame. He repeats the one piece of good information – my visceral fat rate is only 7% which apparently means I’m not carrying a lot of fat around my internal organs. Bless him, he can see I’m trying to process these results as I head straight into the denial portion of the charge curve.

To my eternal shame, I start cajoling the larger lady of our boxing class to be brave enough to stand on the scales in a desperate bid to feel better about my sturdy square little body. Sensibly she refuses and keeps her trainers firmly laced.

Try as I might, I can’t get creative about the story that aligns with these numbers. I have beasted my body over these past weeks, I know if effort could melt fat, I’d be on my way to being a slip of a thing again. If only it were that simple and I was twenty years old again, this wouldn’t even be a topic of note. However, back in the real world where metabolism slows, the remaining bit of thyroid needs checking, the evening G&T’s need curbing and the desire for sweet things needs to be more carefully controlled, I am left with the stark reminder that no matter how I look at these numbers they can’t be massaged into shape.

The stark reminder is I need to consume less, exercise even more and get down to the serious recognition that true performance only comes with hard work, perseverance and determination. Given time and consistency real change will happen. I have the faith.

After all the real numbers don’t lie.

Snippets

Glitter and glue

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Back into Bridgetown again today to deliver a 3 hour workshop on 5 hours sleep. Adrenalin is a fabulous energiser, as is coffee.  And people only see what they choose to see so moving at pace with an enthusiastic voice covers up how I’m feeling inside.

A3993FAB-2B41-469F-B9A6-29E18EB6FFFA.jpegI stand in the Sky Mall toy store staring at the myriad of stickers and paint and glitter and glue. I’ve no idea what I’m going to do with it all, but it’s so bright and colorful and it makes me want to imagine and create, so I spend a small fortune and leave with a bag full of goodies.  I take it home and empty the bag onto my desk, shuffling bits around searching for inspiration.

It’s not coming so I head outside and empty what’s left of my brain into the business of trimming dying plants and palm fronds. I go back indoors and stare at the desk pile again.  Nope. Nada.

i wander back upstairs and open the fridge door. There’s no inspiration in there but there is chocolate.  It helps on a different physiological level so I have a mental pass to indulge.  I chew mindlessly wondering when, if nothing strikes the mind,  I should phone a friend.  Thankfully it’s time to go to get ready for my boxing class, perhaps my boxing instructor and a punchbag will help.

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Depleted in energy, smelly and sweat-soaked, I leave boxing and stop in another shop where I purchase more glittery card, squashy squeeze balls, sweeties, coloured pens, coloured post it notes, glittery pipe cleaner sticks and bendy yellow men.  I love shopping so that’s another 90 minutes of my day. Now it’s almost time to pick Roscoe and his mate off the school bus, feed them and jump in the car for barre class at the studio.  I don’t mean to be, but I’m gone for 3 hours as I do a restorative class too and then kill another hour talking to the instructor.  Coming home, at 8.30pm, I combine all glitter and goodies together before concentrating on a series of big picture mind mapping; starting with outcomes and the participants experience.   A few maps later, a couple of Ted talks and a browse through pin-interest before exploring my back catalogue of previous work and  finally the germ of an interactive course on employee engagement is beginning to emerge, like a moth fluttering in the darkness.  The moth feels good but it knows in its heart there is the light of joy somewhere,  it just needs to fly around a bit harder. But as it’s now nearly 2am, I’m totally unproductive and need to go to bed. There are 24 hours to go before delivery and 24 hours is an age.  There is plenty of time.

I forget that there is a plethora of workmen scheduled to visit the house in the morning.  Unbelievably,  and unusually, they all turn up, most of whom are only a couple of hours late.  They all need conversation and guidance.  As they monopolise  my time and my attention, the dog runs off again, twice,  what with the gate being opened and closed to let the various workmen vans pass through. I spend a lot of Thursday morning chasing the darned dogs tail.  Nothing else gets done.

By 2pm silence eventually descends and I can start to pull together my structure; timings, purpose of each activity, who’s delivering/talking, notes and speaking points and materials required.   The PowerPoint slides are created and eventually printed ( finding A4 paper in Barbados is impossible; this 8.5”by 11” is just a rubbish dimension and is  unrecognised by my printer) and the slides are then individually self-laminated.  This one activity requires lots of patience and attention to detail.  Not my greatest strengths.  However,  it’s worth it as we’re going old school- no hiding behind laptops. It’s all blue-tak aided flip-charts, laminated slides on walls, games, problem solving, dancing, facilitating from the front.  More fun but loads more prep-work.

Later that evening, I share the proposed structure with Craig and he rightly points out that one element which is an hour long, will be tricky in this environment.  I can see what he’s saying and it forces another re-write and a new opportunity emerges to have employees start to define their employee experience. Actually this turns out to be genius – recognition; employee value proposition and a 20 year historic timeline are the majority elements of the workshop. It’s a good flow both on paper and in reality and there is lots of laughter, discussion, movement, listening and learning as the time flies by.

By workshop end I’m not the only one with a smile as big as a Jaffa orange slice, who is covered in glitter and pen and bits of sticky foam card.  We all leave wanting more.  Who says work can’t be fun?

Snippets

Princess Pants

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I blame the Duchess of Cambridge .

Her predilection for the fitted frock, the nude heel, the natural hosiery has created a generation of working women groomed, polished, poised, professional and kitted out with the latest LK Bennett  perfect little dress and contrast jacket or matching coat. You can even invest in the LKB collection of neat nude heels whether the kitten, cuban, wedge or classic court is your footwear of choice.

Walk into any corporate office in the UK and you will spot the LK Bennett woman a mile off. She’s the one sprinting from meeting to meeting, aiming for the right mix of pathos, logos and gravitas. Approachable yet authoritative. Decisive yet inclusive. Noticed for her ability not for her physical attributes. Her clothing and style is fitted yet skimming, average yet middle-class expensive; it’s a balancing act and its safety is in its blandness, its good taste, its ability to allow the wearer to fit in, yet not stand out unless she wants to. I deeply, passionately understand this woman. I used to be her. 

When we move to Barbados, I let the majority of this working uniform go, retaining just a few lightweight frocks left hanging in the wardrobe as a forlorn reminder of a life past.

Today, I ‘shoogle’ myself into this uniform again to deliver an intercultural training session to a cross-section of multi-national folks in downtown Bridgetown.

Thankfully it’s an afternoon session and thankfully I have devoted 90 minutes of personal grooming prep so I can remember what it takes to look polished and professional. I used to be able to do this in less than 30 minutes of a morning but I now need every second of the time I’ve allotted.   Until this morning, I can’t remember the last time I used a hairdryer to dry my hair, or smoothed in serum to stop it looking wayward. I pluck eyebrows and carefully apply the right level and colour of makeup; just enough to look done, not over-done. The right scent and the right amount of scent is important; nothing too over-powering; just a whiff of light, fresh and classy. In my case this is Jo Malone; Lime, Basil and Mandarin cologne.

Then it comes the turn of the frock, which one? I pick out a navy with square neckline trimmed in cream, it goes over the head okay but what used to skim hip and thigh, seems to now stick not skim. The dreaded middle age spread and these bags of caramel popcorn are definitely contributory factors. I realise that not only do I need to select a looser style of dress but I also need to seek out my princess pants.

I have these pants in every colour and in every thigh length. I have the ones that focus on the butt and the others that focus on the belly. I have the whole contraption of thigh, butt, belly and those which push the boob up too.

I have industrial strength, medium weight and lightweight variations. I could set up my own Princess Pants shop as I was an expert in no line, slimline, shape-wear. I used to wear such underwear daily but it’s not seen the light of day here in Barbados.

And for good reason. I will spare the descriptive details but it takes fully 10 minutes of my 90 minutes to snap myself into the right pair of Princess wear. Even with the air conditioning on full blast, my hair is everywhere and my ‘barely there’ makeup  glistens with ladies perspiration. If I had the time, I’d have a lie down.

Exhausted, I then have to remember the contortionists trick required to do up the full length zip at the back of my frock.

I now have to take 5 minutes to remember how to walk confidently in high heels and not weeble-wobble like a teenager on stilts. As I walk up and down the hallway, initially using the wall to keep me upright, the confused dog gives up thinking this is some sort of game and sits down looking at me quizzically. He has, by now, covered my frock in golden dog hairs. I’m looking far less polished and professional than the Laura of the good old days.

All these antics  completely take my mind off being content perfect  and as a result, I’m relaxed during training delivery and confident in answering participants questions. However,  this may be because the blood supply in my lower body is slowly being strangled by the amount of constricting elastic encasing my flesh. Engaging with others is the only thing that takes my mind off of the mental image that one of my legs could fall off at any point.

The absolute pleasure of peeling off my princess pants when I get home is akin to being stroked all over by a feather in the mouth of a Greek God. I hang up the LKB frock not sure when I will wear it again, or if I ever want to wear it again. The worn princess pants resemble a tangled, mangled, dog-chewed rag at the bottom of the laundry bin.

Perhaps now is the time to focus on substance not style. But somehow, I know this will never be my mantra; I like dressing up too much. I just need to buy bigger princess pants.

Changes created by the cancer adventure, General Musings

Breakthrough

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The last time I successfully chewed any food using the back teeth on the left hand side of my jaw was Friday, December 4, 2015.

Until today.

This morning, after barre class at the studio, I stopped off to buy some Christmas decorations for the school Interact club donation drive and managed to walk out of the store with an additional small bag of caramel popcorn.  It’s a weakness which is indulged after every exercise session and it’s probably the contributing factor to my not losing any weight.

Feeling part guilty, part starved, I prise open the bag and start driving whilst scoffing away.  About six mouthfuls of popcorn later,  I start getting jaw ache –  this is quite common and is a side effect of the mouth cancer.   Only this time my belly is not giving up so easy, so the communication signal goes to the brain to  try to use the left side incisors.   (The last time I did this I ended up with a very chewed, painful and mangled flap which took nearly a year to heal). Tentatively, carefully, I take one kernel and pop it into the left side of my mouth and slowly start to chew.  It feels so good and the taste is more satisfying, almost sweeter.  Even better, there is no pain and nothing else but the popcorn gets chewed.  I try again, and again, and again, until there is no popcorn left.

And I know this seems like a stupid thing to write about but it’s such a victory.  If I can do it with popcorn, I can do it with other foodstuffs and this opens up lots of new opportunities to try different tastes and textures.

I am so grateful that I continue to recover and heal.  These small things deserve to be recognised and celebrated.